Matt heard the knock on his door and sighed. “Come in!”
He kept his attention on the documents in front of him, trusting his lifeguard to handle any direct attempts on his life. They’d been far better at catching any assassins meant for him, lately—he’d heard of at least two would-be king killers that hadn’t even made it into the palace—and he guessed that spending all of his time being paranoid would not help him survive much better. At least, that was what he told himself when he recognized himself getting a bit too jumpy.
Not that anyone in their right mind could blame him. Just over ten weeks ago, he’d been nothing but a security guard trusted with watching over shipping containers and not much else. Now he was king over some kind of fantasy realm, with no way home and hundreds of thousands of people depending on him. The people here had already tried to kill him at least half a dozen times, and some had gotten closer than others.
Matt grimaced and rubbed at a sore spot on his chest. The arrow wound still ached occasionally, a constant reminder that he owed the treacherous Lady Suluth a proper ‘thanks’ for her attempted coup. It was a side concern, but one he couldn’t afford to forget.
His visitor opened the door and cleared his voice, carefully respectful. “Sire.”
Matt looked up, seeing a bit of worry on his steward’s face. The Imp had been the person who had dragged him into the whole thing, after he’d accidentally killed the kingdom’s former ruler, and Matt had been halfway sure that the poor fool would regret it by the end of the first week. So far, however, they’d made it through. “Gorfeld. Do you have news for me?”
“I do, sire.” Gorfeld hesitated, still looking concerned. “Are you in pain, my liege? Should I send for the healers?”
“No, Gorfeld. Just a bit of soreness.” The healers hadn’t been happy to let him ride off to battle while he was still healing, but the war against the Noble Races had been too crucial to ignore. His decision had led to the defeat of the enemy at a battle that everyone now called Folly’s End, so they had constrained themselves to muttering unhappily, at least for now. “What’s happening?”
The steward seemed unconvinced, but he shook his head rather than press the point. “I have been informed that the emissaries for the Noble Races have arrived, sire. They are waiting outside the city now.”
Matt let himself break into a broad smile. The Noble Races had been a constant source of threats and problems for the entire time he’d been here. Now that he’d broken their armies at Folly’s End, he was more than ready for the chance to accept their surrender. Peace on his eastern borders would let him focus on so many other things.
It wasn’t like he lacked enough to worry about. Aside from two separate rebellions inside his borders, at least one scheming noble that kept trying to slip assassins through the lifeguard, and the constant bickering of the Great Council, there was another invasion gathering to the south, led by the so-called Alliance of Light. Solving at least one of those problems would at least simplify things a little for the future.
Of course, it might also work to solve another of the problems he was currently staring at now.
Matt looked back down at the desk in front of him, covered with scraps of paper with figures and other work written on them, and sighed again. When he glanced up, Gorfeld was watching him closely. “Sire? Are you still going over the budget?”
“In more ways than one, unfortunately.” Matt cracked a sarcastic grin. “You did warn me we’d start running out of treasure to pay for things.”
“I did, sire.” Gorfeld shrugged uncomfortably. “I cannot argue that your work has improved the kingdom, especially within Redspire itself. Providing clean water for the capital was an incredible undertaking, and your other projects will surely benefit us just as much. Your decision to free your serfs, and to encourage the others to free theirs, was likewise inspired… but it has come at significant cost.”
He sat back with a grunt. “So you’re seeing the same numbers I am?”
Gorfeld nodded. “Even with the nobility agreeing to shoulder some of the costs for mustering more troops, our treasury is significantly depleted. I estimate that by the end of the winter, we will have spent over half of it; the rest is not likely to last until summer. We need a new source of income, sire, unless you wish to risk delaying the pay to our troops.”
That sounded like a terrible idea. How many times had he read histories of countries that had stopped paying their soldiers, only for their own military to take their own pay through looting, coup d’états, or other ambitious schemes? “No. We’ll find some other way. Perhaps once the waterworks are done, we’ll scale back on our other work.”
It pained him to say it, and by the grimace on Gorfeld’s face, the Imp didn’t like the sound of it either. “As you say, sire. There is one other matter. A messenger came from Lord Grufen. He reports that the war against the traitor Itrelia continues to go well, but asks for you to come and visit his forces in the Small Heights.”
Matt blinked. He frowned as he thought things over. Grufen had been one of the nobles on the edge of rebelling when Matt had taken power; only some quick maneuvering had convinced the Orc to remain in the fold, along with the Gnomish leader, Lord Nuramesh. Both lords had done well holding against Itrelia’s forces in the north. Why were they asking for him to visit them now?
It could be a simple power play, something to gain Grufen some influence in the Great Council. Matt had already awarded him the title Defender of the Realm, but the favor of the crown was always something a nobleman could use against his opponents.
Of course, Grufen could also hope to take the opportunity to grab a bit more power for himself. If Matt arrived in an area that Grufen controlled, then the Hard Scythe Orc might try to give himself a quick promotion via a well-placed assassination attempt. Done well enough, and the Orc might even be able to pin the blame on Itrelia, while riding back to the capital as a new ruler. Grufen hadn’t struck him as quite that ambitious or scheming, but Matt hadn’t gotten this far by trusting any of the nobility too heavily.
He gathered up the treasury reports, setting them in a neat stack his clerks would approve of. “Did Lord Grufen say why I was needed?”
“His message said that the morale of the rebels was starting to fracture. Apparently, he feels that your presence in the Small Heights might be enough to break it entirely.”
Matt snorted. “I’m really that terrifying, then?”
He’d meant the question as a joke, but Gorfeld nodded seriously. “He seemed sincere, sire. Further, Lord Nuramesh also sent a separate letter with the same messenger. The Gnome endorsed the same request in the hopes of ending the conflict before it grows any worse.”
Matt paused. Nuramesh and Grufen had been cooperating somewhat reluctantly since his arrival in the Kingdom. If he hadn’t given Grufen orders to guard Nuramesh’s homeland, Matt imagined they wouldn’t have really bothered cooperating on anything at all. That they agreed on something now either meant the visit really was a good idea—or they were getting along a little too well, and visiting them in the Small Heights would result in a new, probably better organized assassination attempt.
Either way, he had other things to worry about right now. “I’ll decide on that after we speak with the delegation. They are outside the gates, you said?” Gorfeld nodded, and Matt finished tidying up his desk. “Good. Tell the Grand Council to assemble. I’ll meet the delegation at Victory Square.”
“Very well, my liege.” Gorfeld bowed. Matt tried not to notice the slight smirk on the steward’s face. Victory Square seemed like an absurd name for the place where they’d parked that ridiculous statue of him, but it was apparently a significant place now, and it would make a decent impact on the ambassadors coming here with what he hoped would be a peace proposal. Maybe he would get some actual use out of the thing before he managed to convince someone to melt it down.
Roughly half an hour later, Matt waited beside the fountain while a couple of Orcs from the Eighth Spears escorted the Noble Races delegation into the square.
There were nine of them, following along behind the Spears in a disgruntled cluster of clear outsiders. The people of Redspire treated them with contemptuous disregard, ignoring their presence as if they were unimportant. Some of the delegates appeared to be comfortable with the treatment, but he could see at least some of them were walking stiffly, with backs straightened by offense. The Dwarf from the Sunken Clans was shaking with restrained rage in his heavy armor, and the Knight that wore the crest of the Anchor seemed little better. All three Elves appeared to wish to be anywhere else, however; they clustered together with the two Wizards at the back.
Their leader was a Knight that wore the colors of the Order of the Griffon, Hethwellow’s nation. She appeared to be far more in shape than Hethwellow had ever been, with armor that seemed well-cared-for. The woman was studying the people around her with a grim, fatalistic attitude, as if she expected assassins to emerge from the crowds at a moment’s notice. At least, she did until her eyes fell on Matt. Then she came to a complete stop, as did the rest of the delegation.
They all stared in his direction for a few moments longer, as if bracing themselves for the encounter ahead of them. Then their leader shook her head and started forward again, followed carefully by the rest of the delegation. The Spears escorting them strode along beside them, obviously ready for anything they might try.
Not that Matt had any worries about what the delegates could do. He wasn’t exactly waiting for the emissaries alone; the Council had assigned him a contingent of bodyguards specifically to prevent him from getting into any more danger. There were at least sixteen of them, scattered about the square with their hands already on their weapons. Any sign of an attack would draw an instant response that would leave every one of the would-be assassins dead, likely before any of them accomplished anything at all.
Matt waited until the delegates had gathered around him. Then he gestured for Gorfeld to hand him a simple bronze cup. “Welcome to Redspire. It is my hope that you are here to embrace peace with us. Am I correct?”
The delegates exchanged looks for a moment, their expressions ranging from incredulous to outraged. Their leader was the one who answered, her voice tight with anger. “We were sent to seek a truce with you, tyrant. The gods have blessed you with victory in war, and we have no choice but to recognize the circumstances we find ourselves in.”
Matt raised an eyebrow at being called a tyrant—technically, it was kind of true, but it wasn’t like he’d wanted the job at first—and then nodded. “I’m glad to hear you see reason, lady knight.” He turned and dipped the cup beneath one of the streams running from the fountain. “When I returned to Redspire, they welcomed me with a drink from this fountain as a sign of the future. I offer it to you as well, in the hopes of a…new start. One that will hopefully wash away some of the bitterness.”
He held out the cup to her, and the Knight actually took a step back in response, as if he was offering her a drink of poison. Matt simply stood, waiting, as if pretending he didn’t notice the looks of revulsion on their faces. Diplomacy was almost as much about lies as espionage or war ever were, after all.
The Knight looked from him to the cup, and then back again. He raised his eyebrows, as if to ask what was wrong. She grimaced, her jaw firming up as she realized the challenge he was extending.
Then she reached out and practically snatched the cup from him. The water inside sloshed slightly, and the nearest lifeguards tensed at the sudden motion. Matt settled them back into their places with a glance. When he looked back, the Knight was studying the cup with continued disdain. With clear expectations, she raised it to her lips and took a sip.
The surprise on her face was as clear as it was gratifying. She looked down at the cup in surprise, then back up at Matt. He smiled at her, and she took another cautious sip. “A…surprising start, King Matthew.”
Matt nodded. “If any of your companions wish to refresh themselves, the water here is both pure and freely available to any of you. I proclaim you beneath my protection, and my lifeguard will see to your safety while you are here.” He held out a hand, and the Knight reluctantly returned the cup to him. With deliberate unconcern, he drank the remaining water, and then handed Gorfeld the cup. “If you are ready, however, let’s get back to the castle. The Grand Council waits for us, and we will hear your proposal for a truce there.”
She blinked. “The Grand Council?”
“Yes. A tradition that I revived here, so that the nobles of my people could help me with their wisdom. They will consider your terms.”
The Knight of the Anchor, who was still staring around at the lifeguard in contempt, abruptly snorted. “So. It wasn’t you making all the decisions, was it? I’m glad you have the proper sorts making choices among you, at least. You aren’t as ignorant as I was led to believe.”
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Matt fixed the man with a calm stare. Clearly, not every member of the eastern alliance had been quite as cowed by their recent losses. He remembered the battle of Folly’s End and saw the riders from the Knights of the Anchor fleeing the battle long before it was lost. “While your flattery is impressive, sir Knight, I’m sure that most of your people don’t have an optimistic impression of us. Just as we don’t have a particularly courageous picture of the Knights of the Anchor, recently.”
The Knight’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and Matt allowed himself a smile. It was a thin, vicious twist of the lips, and he stepped in closer, ignoring the way the rest of the delegation tensed as a result. People had died enough on both sides. He wasn’t going to allow some overconfident jackass to ruin the chance at ending it—but that didn’t mean the arrogant fool was going to enjoy the process. “Go ahead, sir Knight. Take offense. Bluster, and posture, and strut around like an outraged rooster. From what I’ve seen, it’s all the good you’ve done for your friends in this war. No one will be surprised.”
Matt saw the man’s hand twitch towards his sword, but the sudden, lethal attention of the lifeguards stayed the Knight’s instinctive first response. “I-I—”
“This is not some barnyard, sir Knight. You can impress the hens somewhere else, but if you open your mouth one more time, I will just make peace with every other member of your coalition except you. Then the brave Knights of the Anchor can see how they fare against me alone.” Matt stepped forward again, staring up at the man steadily. He stared back at Matt, his face undergoing several interesting changes in color, before he finally jerked his head away and nodded.
Satisfied, Matt stood back. He looked among the others, whose expressions were pale and horrified. “Good. I have every hope that we can reach a lasting truce on both sides.” Then he paused. “Remember, though. I gave Hethwellow a warning. War can begin when you choose, but does not always end when you want it to. This war is one you all started. Now it will end when I want it to. So please, be convincing.”
The members of the lifeguard and Gorfeld in particular had just barely managed to stop chuckling under their breath and being smugly satisfied by the time they reached the Grand Council chamber. It was a close-run thing, though; more than once, Matt had been forced to glare his own people back into good behavior as they walked.
Fortunately, the Grand Council more than made up for the others’ lack of dignity. The chamber itself had been reworked; the older furniture had given way to more personalized and ostentatious seating. Some of the servants had spent a significant amount of time here as well, trying to clean away the dust and the cobwebs and make the place seem less claustrophobic.
Matt led the delegation into the chamber, noting that the Council was completely in attendance. None of the nobility had ignored his summons, which he took as an encouraging sign. The more engaged that the nobility were in this process, the less they would complain about the agreement they eventually reached. It wouldn’t silence all the complaints, but it would be better than nothing.
Matt gestured for the delegation to stop while he continued forward to the throne at the center of the chamber. He sat, taking a moment to adjust the mace that had been left for him, leaned casually against the side of the metal throne. It wasn’t likely that he would need a personal weapon, not with the lifeguard taking up protective positions around the room, but the look of the thing was important.
Then he looked up from the waiting delegates to the Council seated around the rest of the chamber. They stared back at him wordlessly, a silence falling over them as they waited for him to begin. “Nobles of the Great Council, these emissaries of the Noble Races have arrived to seek a truce with our Kingdom. I know that we have been at war with them these past weeks, and that we have sacrificed much to drive them from our lands. Many of their corpses are buried in our soil, and prisoners are kept in the Tower of Blood. Despite all this, I ask you, for the good of the Kingdom, to hear their petition.”
He paused, letting the words sink in. “Our Kingdom faces many troubles, but this war was not one that we chose. It would be better for both our peoples if it was ended. However, it is your responsibility to make sure that we do not gain this truce, gained with the blood of so many, at the cost of hurting ourselves. Listen close, and judge well.”
Matt looked back at the delegates, most of whom looked baffled. He caught the eye of the woman in charge, the one who had drunk at the fountain, and gestured for her to begin.
She nodded, drew in a quiet breath, and stepped forward to address the Council. “My name is Lady Sevlana Parthsemmans. I stand as the third daughter of the Chief Marshal of our Order, the monarch who rules over the lands of the Knights of Griffon. He has sent me to act as his guarantor and spokesman here among you.”
The Knight paused, and Matt settled back in his throne, his eyebrows trying to climb up his forehead towards his scalp. If she wasn’t lying, she was an enemy king’s own child. Not exactly in line for the throne, but close enough to make the point. The Knights were serious about it—at least the ones from Griffon. Her fellow Knight was too busy sneering at her back to seem unified on the matter.
Sevlana continued in an even tone. “The war between our peoples was a product of misguided ambition and foolish pride. Enough have died in it. Let us see it finished so that both sides may move on from it in a shared understanding.”
Lord Torth stood, raising his hand to call for Matt’s attention. Matt nodded to the Imp; he represented the most unified members of the Council, all of whom had a tendency to allow him to act as their spokesperson in the most important Council debates. A clever man, he hadn’t seemed to plot against Matt…yet. Still, he was a man to be watched carefully, no matter the circumstances.
Torth’s attention was on Sevlana, however. His slitted eyes were narrow. “You will excuse me, princess, for pointing out that if things had turned out differently, you would not be so eager to end things now. The war between us is only weeks old, after all. Our king has not even sat the throne for more than a full season.”
A murmur of agreement spread through the hall, and Matt forced himself to stay impassive. The Council had the authority to authorize treaties and negotiations like this one. He couldn’t override it without damaging that structure. If he was serious about building this place into a nation that didn’t need kings—didn’t need him—then he would need to let them make decisions and having debates he didn’t like. Especially ones like these.
For her part, Sevlana bit her lip for a moment. When she spoke next, her voice was carefully controlled. “Regardless of why the war began, or what would have happened if our fortunes had been different, you would still have wanted it to end sooner rather than later, yes? You can’t want to be facing yet another enemy on your borders, not when you have so many.”
“One might say that it is better to deal with an enemy who has tripped in front of you, rather than turning and letting them stab you in the back.” Torth raised an eyebrow at her. “Now that the advantage is ours, explain why we should not do to you what you would have done to us? I believe your people had plans to burn us from our homes, and take our throne for yourselves, did they not?”
Another, louder murmur spread through the chamber, and the delegates from the east drew closer together. Sevlana was left out in front, alone as she looked up at the nobility. Her face had grown drawn, but her jaw firmed. “Respectfully, my lord, war is a fickle child. You have the upper hand now, but that is not always guaranteed. Right now, it is our nation that regrets its belligerence. Who is to say it will not be your Kingdom pleading for a reprieve in the days to come?”
Across the chamber from Torth, an Orc wearing Red Moon colors snorted. “As if any of your commanders could match our King. He’s already cut your armies nearly in half. What could he do with another ten weeks?”
As much as Matt appreciated the vote of confidence, he knew the situation was a bit more complicated than that. Another ten weeks would see the Alliance of Light invading from the south, and if he hadn’t finished one or both of the rebels before then…
He shook his head, and Torth caught the move. The Imp smiled and nodded to him. “Our King has done well, Lord Schek, but I admit the lady Knight speaks the truth. Besides, who knows what new wonders he would bring us if his attention was not taken by such unworthy distractions?” Then Torth paused. “All the same, there are many villages that lie burned as a result of these invaders, and I am reluctant to ignore those wounds just for the sake of a temporary peace. I would hear from the people’s Voice before I agree to any such thing.”
Matt smiled, both at Torth’s suggestion and at the sudden confusion on the delegates’ faces. Clearly, they didn’t know much of what he had already started to change in Redspire. “Voice Wokneth. Would you give us your thoughts on the matter?”
An expectant silence fell over the assembled nobility. They turned to face a seat that had been placed separate from the others where an old Ashrock Imp had been sitting. Matt watched with interest as Voice Wokneth slowly came to his feet, leaning heavily on a cane to get to his feet. He’d hoped that Girtun would have been here, but the blacksmith-turned-Voice had been insistent that the second Voice was just as reliable. Now was the first chance he had to see the man for himself.
Wokneth took a moment to catch his breath before he spoke. When his words came, they were low and breathy, with that unsteady warble the elderly can sometimes have. “I thank Lord Torth for the opportunity to speak on this subject, as it is dear to my heart.” He turned to the delegates, who were watching him with an utter lack of understanding. “The honorable ones here may not know, but I was born in a village not far from Greymouth. My sons and daughters farmed there as well. At least, they did. Until a week ago.”
A silence fell, and Wokneth let it continue for a few tense heartbeats. “As you may have guessed, that village, and many others, is now naught but ash. My sons and their families are refugees here in Redspire, where the wisdom of their King has kept them safe. Not all of the freeholders of Redspire are so lucky. There are many who mourn their kin thanks to the greed of these invaders, and my heart cries out to hold them responsible. To make a lesson of them, so that no future men or women of ambition seek to write their legacy in our spilled blood.”
Then the elderly Imp’s voice broke for a moment, and he coughed. To Matt’s surprise, none of the gathered nobles tried to interrupt him, and their expectant silence seemed to hold the delegation quiet as well. A few moments later, Wokneth had recovered enough to continue. “Yet I urge the Council to ignore such feelings. What good would it do to punish these villains any further for their crimes? How many of my sons’ fields would it plant to burn their crops to ash? Which of my daughters’ homes would be rebuilt by smashing their walls? I see little that further fighting would give us, aside from their blood, and honestly, I hold that commodity of little value.”
The words rippled through the delegation like a slap to the face, and the Dwarf actually started to lunge forward with a snarl. Wokneth did not budge, facing them with the courage of a man with one foot already in the grave, and smiled. “As Voice of the Assembly of Redspire, I have been asked to stand against any measure I believe would block this truce, short of something the King judges a risk to our safety or honor—and I will do so. Thank you.”
Wokneth slowly folded himself back into his seat, and Matt had to hide a smile behind his hand. The Imp appeared more worried about sitting down than he had staring down the ambassadors of an alliance of nations. It was hard to believe that just weeks ago he’d been a serf; he owed Girtun an apology for ever doubting him about his fellow Voice.
Lord Torth cleared his throat, looking suspiciously as if he was trying to avoid a smirk of his own. “Well said, Voice Wokneth. I find myself persuaded as well. A truce costs us little and avoids a price we can ill afford.”
Another noble rose, this time a Hard Scythe Orc. “Just because fighting gains us little doesn’t mean we should allow these beaten dogs to escape so easily. Our mercy should not come so cheaply.” She turned to stare at the delegation below. “What offer do you have for us, should we accept your overtures today?”
Sevlana seemed caught between reluctance and relief. “We are prepared to surrender control of the fortress of Greymouth…”
She trailed off as a rash of growls and laughter ran through the room. A Blackleaf Goblin leaned out from her chair to speak. “Perhaps offer us more than what we could take from you just by closing our fist, lady Knight? It may be received better.”
Matt nodded. The fortress had been ‘taken’ by the invaders because he had left it abandoned in an attempt to convince them to split their forces. It had worked, and after Folly’s End, the would-be occupiers had practically abandoned the place, leaving it held by perhaps a banner or two. Neither would hold for long against any of his forces; the only reason he hadn’t bothered to send troops was because he didn’t want them to trudge through the snow to reach the place.
The Knight grimaced. She closed her eyes and breathed hard for a moment. “I am also authorized to discuss tribute to be paid in exchange for a truce, so that you do not feel our request unjust.”
Torth nodded. “And ransom for the prisoners in the Tower, as well?”
She winced, but nodded. It was clear negotiations were going to be expensive for the Noble Races, but he felt a sudden burst of relief. If they could squeeze enough gold out of the Noble Races, maybe his budget wouldn’t collapse as quickly as he had believed. Not only that, but it was the kind of expense that might keep those nations from immediately reforming their army for a new attack in a year or two.
He sat back as the Council raked the delegates over the coals and grinned. Maybe diplomacy wasn’t so terrible to sit through after all.
His opinion had changed five hours later, and not for the better. “How did they spend that whole time just talking? I feel like I could have ridden out and conquered the whole coalition before they even finished hashing out the details.”
Gorfeld gave him a wry look. “As I recall, sire, it was your idea to turn such discussions over to the Council. Are you complaining about their desire to do it well?”
Matt rolled his eyes. “No, I suppose I shouldn’t. I guess I am just troubled by their tendency to do it so…thoroughly.” The steward shrugged and grinned at him, and Matt sighed in response. “Did you send a message to Parufeth? I wanted to go over the new plans with him today, but…”
“I did, sire. He said that you are free to speak with him whenever would be convenient for you, and that he intends on visiting the pits west of the city tomorrow morning.”
Matt nodded, a picture of the coming day falling into place. He could visit Parufeth first, then check in with Sargent Nikles for some physical training. After that, he could make sure that the final negotiations with the Noble Races delegation were finished—apparently it would require the creation of a magical contract that would bind both sides—and from there, he could spend the rest of the day on his mantras…something he was technically supposed to be working on now.
He'd been struggling through the mantras to create his first magical Source since before Folly’s End, and while he had made some progress, the fact that the terrain was knee-deep in snow meant that the magic of Autumn was having a hard time establishing itself. Matt felt he was close to a breakthrough there, and Melren, the former nobleman who was coaching him in magic, seemed to be encouraged by his progress, but it was still frustrating.
Trying to push past the distractions, Matt looked back at Gorfeld. “I’ll visit the work sites tomorrow, then. For now, could you send a message to the garrison? I want the six Irregular banners who stayed in the city prepare to march.”
Gorfeld’s eyes flashed a little. “So you are going to the Small Heights after all, my liege?”
“I might as well get the troops ready if I do head that way.” He shook his head. The Irregulars were not reliable troops, essentially just freeholders that had been conscripted from farmers and laborers. He’d been attempting to train them with the Crown Guard, but his more professional troops had been too busy to make much progress with them, and the casualties they had taken in the wars so far had made it that much more difficult to bring the fresh recruits up to snuff.
Still, a commander went to work with the army they had, not the one they wished for—and after Folly’s End, the Irregulars were the only troops that weren’t exhausted and full of wounded. Besides, Grufen and Nuramesh both had their own, more well-trained troops in the north, and Itrelia should have been running short on real forces already. Surely even a mass of raw recruits would help finish things there.
Gorfeld bowed and then left his study. Matt turned back to the mantras he’d been attempting to focus on. It would be painful, but the magic would eventually be worth it. Hopefully. Probably. He shook his head and tried to bear down and get through it a few more times before his mind gave up on it. There were too many people counting on him to give up now.